Claire Thornton - The Vagabond Duchess

Temperance held the folded cloth in front of her and looked at Jack. Was it possible he was telling her the truth? He’d already mentioned visiting Bruges, and he’d told her about his trip to Venice more than once.

‘Is your cousin a Catholic?’ she asked, noting his reference to the convent.

‘No. At least, she wasn’t when she first became a guest of the nuns. She may have become more sympathetic to their mode of worship over the past few years,’ Jack replied. ‘But I can assure you she doesn’t have horns and a tail.’ There was an unusually acerbic tone in his voice. ‘My other cousin, the one I travelled with to Dover, is a good Swedish Lutheran. No doubt far more acceptable to your English sensibilities.’

Temperance stared at him, trying to unravel everything he’d just said.

‘Aren’t you English?’ she said. ‘I thought you were. You sound like an Englishman. You said your great-grandfather was a grocer here in London.’

‘Yes, I’m English. By birth at least,’ he replied.

‘But you have a Swedish cousin?’

‘Half-Swedish. One of my uncles decided to make his fortune in Sweden and married a Swedish lady,’ Jack explained. It was only when she noticed a slight relaxation in his posture she realised he’d tensed in response to her earlier question.

‘Don’t you feel English?’ she asked.

‘No. Yes.’ He lifted one hand towards his head, then abruptly lowered it.

‘You nearly forgot it’s not your hair,’ she taunted gently. ‘If you hadn’t wasted your money, every time you feel frustrated you’d be able to tug at your hair to your heart’s content. As it is…’ She let the words fade aggravatingly away.

‘Why are you prejudiced against my handsome periwig?’ he demanded. ‘It is no different from that of any courtier—even the King himself. Would you make fun of his Majesty if he came to buy linen from you?’

‘Of course not. But you must cut your coat to fit your cloth.’

‘Very apt. Are you ever going to give it to me? Or just clutch it against your breast until Judgement Day?’

‘Are you thinking a gentlemanly appearance will help you win another audience with the King?’ Temperance asked, experiencing sudden enlightenment. ‘I can see, if you believe it will help you win greater advancement, it might be worth the investment.’

‘I’m glad I’ve finally won your approval.’

‘I didn’t say that. If it was from pure vanity—’

‘Diable!’ Jack snatched the periwig from his head and stuffed it in his pocket. ‘There, are you satisfied?’

Her breath caught. His black hair had been cropped close to his head. Now there was nothing to soften his angular features and the predatory jut of his aquiline nose. His dark eyes simmered with impatience. He looked lean and dangerous. A hard, dark man capable of unimaginable deeds. Her first instinct was to take a step back, but she refused to give ground before him. Why had she allowed herself to forget her first impression of him? He was a vagabond.

Then he started to laugh. ‘You would try the patience of a saint, Madam Tempest. And Heaven knows, I am no saint. Let us call a truce on the subject.’

‘As…as you wish.’ Temperance’s hands felt unaccountably shaky as she turned away to finish preparing the cloth for him. ‘So where is your cousin now?’ she asked over her shoulder.

He shrugged. ‘Somewhere between London and Dover, I imagine.’

‘You left him behind?’ Temperance exclaimed.

Jack grinned. ‘I was in a hurry. There was only one good riding horse at the inn, so I took it. It was his own fault for going for a walk around the town.’

‘You abandoned him after he paid for your passage across the Channel?’ Temperance forgot her resolve not to get embroiled in any further arguments with Jack. ‘How could you have repaid his kindness so ill?’

Jack raised one eyebrow at her. ‘I took his clothes as well,’ he said, casting a disparaging glance down at the olive coat he wore. ‘Surely you didn’t imagine I normally wear such drab attire? But my own clothes had been worn to a thread by the time I reached Dover.’

‘You stole—’ Temperance clapped her hand over her mouth. Accusing a man of being a thief in the middle of one of the busiest shopping thoroughfares of London was a sure way to call unwanted attention upon them.

‘How could you be so ungrateful?’ she demanded in a furious under-voice, smacking the bundled cloth against his chest. ‘Heedless! Have you no conscience? What will you do when he catches up with you?’ she asked. ‘He’ll disown you—or worse.’

‘No, he won’t,’ Jack said. ‘And if he did, it would just mean one less relative to worry about.’

‘To be worried by you, you mean.’ Temperance pushed her hair away from her overheated face. ‘You’re a heedless knave. If you’re not careful, you’ll end at Tyburn.’

‘Would you come to wish me farewell?’

Temperance glanced sideways at him, furious with herself because she did care what happened to him. Just the thought of him meeting the hangman’s noose filled her with sick anxiety.

‘Folly,’ she muttered under her breath. She’d known him for less than one full day, and he done nothing but irritate her the whole time. Except for when he’d saved her from Tredgold and made sure she received fair payment for her linen and muslin. But apart from that….

‘I beg your pardon?’ he said.

‘Stupid.’ She turned on him. ‘Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Go and play your knavish tricks on someone else.’

He grinned. ‘I’ve played no tricks on you at all, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘But if you prefer me gone, that is easily arranged. Allow me a moment to restore myself.’

Before Temperance’s disconcerted gaze he replaced the periwig on his head and arranged it about his shoulders to his satisfaction. The contrast between his hawkish features and the long black curls now framing his face was compelling.

‘Farewell, Madam Tempest.’ He bowed and strolled away.

Temperance watched him go, then dropped into her chair. He was gone. She should feel relieved. Instead she felt flat. Disappointed. He’d gone. And even though he was a scoundrel of the first water, he’d taken all the sparkle of the day with him.

Covent Garden, Sunday 2 September 1666

Jack woke to the smell of coffee and muffled sounds from the coffee room downstairs. He climbed out of bed and stretched, bending his arms to accommodate the low ceiling. He’d enjoyed a convivial evening of music and conversation last night, but it was his afternoon encounter with Temperance that lingered in his thoughts. He smiled as he remembered her reaction when he’d told her he’d taken his cousin’s clothes and left him behind at Dover. She’d been just as entertainingly scandalised as he’d expected—and perhaps she was worried about his fate if his vengeful cousin caught up with him. Jack had no such fears, but he was flattered by her concern.

During his years of exile before the Restoration of Charles II, he had often travelled under the name of Jack Bow. It had given him a freedom of action he’d lacked when he’d been trying to maintain the dignity of his title without the support of either estates or fortune. But he hadn’t meant to assume the guise on his trip to fetch Athena. He’d only done so after he chased her all the way from Bruges to Venice and back again. By the time he’d reached Milan all his entourage had left him for one good reason or another. Once he was travelling alone it had been quicker and more convenient for him to do so as Jack Bow, rather than the Duke of Kilverdale.

He still hadn’t spoken to Athena, but he had caught up with the man who’d brought her back to England—and held a sword to his throat. The Marquis of Halross hadn’t turned a hair at having his intentions towards Athena questioned under such hazardous circumstances. Jack was reasonably satisfied Halross would make his cousin a good husband, but he couldn’t ask Athena if she wanted the marriage because Lord Swiftbourne had taken her to visit her family in Kent. Jack had decided to wait in London for her. He hadn’t yet resumed all the usual trappings of his rank, because he’d never before had a chance to wander unnoticed through the crowds of London. From the day he’d been part of Charles II’s triumphal return procession to the City, he’d always been surrounded by the pomp and formality associated with his title. It was a novelty to entertain a London tavern audience as Jack Bow, and know their praise for his music and story-telling was genuine—not prompted by the hope the Duke of Kilverdale would reward them for their flattery.